


A Modern Angel

by FaunaProductions



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Modern AU, he just talks Like That, lots of ocs will be making appearances, sometimes chris sounds like him too, still dunno what ship im writing this as but im leaning toward e/c/r, this IS modern despite eriks dialogue, yknow that thing where you unconsciously mimic someones speech patterns? yeah she does that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaunaProductions/pseuds/FaunaProductions
Summary: A young woman dreams of angels, having believed in them since her father read her bedtime stories when she was little.Now, a strange voice has begun to give her music lessons and she wonders if this might be one of the angels he spoke of.But is it possible her angel is from Hell rather than Heaven?-A modern retelling of the Phantom of the Opera (most specifically, Andrew Lloyd Webber's interpretation.)This is mostly for fun and likely will only be updated when I feel like it, but hopefully you'll find it entertaining nonetheless!
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	A Modern Angel

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in my visual interpretations of the main trio, you can find them here: https://faunaproductions.tumblr.com/post/625208835061284864/i-was-going-to-post-these-guys-like-two-weeks-ago

The masked man stalked the halls silently.

It was nearing midnight and most everyone had gone home already, allowing him free reign of the entire opera house, only needing to duck into the shadows if he heard security pass by.

He strolled past the costume rooms—a sewing machine could be heard through the doors, Madame Sartre would still be hard at work for another three hours yet.

He had to admire her work ethic, not to mention her incredible costumes which were always perfect for each production put on.

He continued through the stage door, starting toward the orchestra pit—he had to be sure everything was in order, of course—when a voice interrupted his thoughts and his stride.

Not just a voice.

The most beautiful voice he'd ever heard.

She was a soprano, an innocent lilt to her obviously untrained voice.

Her breath control needed work, she wasn't holding the notes long enough, and she seemed to have a weak vibrato, many notes falling flat without it.

He peeked around the corner, spotting the source of the sound at the center of the stage.

She was small—to him, this is an expectation of all people, but she, in particular, stood out in the way that she was very short by normal standards as well.

She had on a knee brace, and combat boots—ballet corps?

The added support from the boots would certainly help with ailing ankles after dancing en pointe, combined with the knee brace, and that no one but those recognized by the guard were allowed to stay so late, ballet corps must have been the answer.

Her blonde curls had been tied back with what seemed to be a thick ribbon, and the bushy hair fell all the way to her knees.

Her voice suddenly breaking shocked him out of his thoughts on how she might improve.

She silently sat down on the stage, rubbing at her eyes.

_ Oh _ , Erik realized, she was crying.

"Oh, Pappa," she muttered aloud, face buried in her hands. "I wish you were here, or you would send me some sign that you're listening, at least."

The thought of  _ what am I doing? _ only briefly crossed Erik's mind as he spoke up from his hiding place, "Why are you crying, child?"

She startled, standing quickly to look around in all directions. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Bellevue-"

"I am not the guard," Erik interrupted her.

She was silent for several long moments before she finally spoke again, "You're him."

He opened his mouth to confirm that yes, he is the famed Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, but she continued with a childlike glee, "Pappa sent me the Angel of Music!"

Erik blinked.

That was certainly not what he had been expecting.

"Yes, of course," he said, though he wasn't entirely sure why he was going along with her nonsense—except, perhaps, that it provided an easy way for him to learn more about this curious chorus girl. "I am your Angel of Music, Mademoiselle."

"Please, Christine is fine," she said with a sheepish giggle.

Ah, good, a name to put to the face and, more importantly, the voice.

"Will you show yourself?" she asked, looking around again.

"In time, Christine, in time," he assured her, "Would you like me to train your voice? Teach you in the arts of the theatre?"

"Please, Angel!" she said quickly, clasping her hands together.

This would be interesting.

The following months seemed to fly by.

Erik never showed himself to Christine, only instructing her from the shadows of the stage or from behind the mirror in the abandoned dressing room which they had commandeered for their lessons—it was never used by performers anyway, as it was rumored to be haunted, so they could be sure their work would be uninterrupted and anything left in the room after a lesson would remain untouched.

She was improving greatly, and with each lesson, Erik sang his praises for her.

"Angel," Christine said after a long lesson, pulling her coat tight around herself. "Am I not deserving enough to see your face?"

Erik was silent, watching as she anxiously glanced around.

Finally, he answered, "Soon, my dear, soon I will appear before you."

"And… are you proud?" she asked softly, smoothing out her skirt, a gesture that he recognized was something she did quite often when worried or anxious.

"Very proud," he said, a smile on his face though he knew she could not see it. "You have progressed so much, Christine, it has been amazing to watch you grow as a singer,  _ my _ Angel of Music."

She smiled, a sight that could rival the sun with how bright it was—although it was certainly more pure and more beautiful.

"I should go," she said with a curtsey, "It's nearly three in the morning, Meg will probably still be up, worrying about where I am."

He knew Meg, or he could recognize her, at any rate.

She was Madame Giry's daughter, also a member of the ballet corps.

She was one of very few who had actually caught sight of the Phantom, and when she was young, she used to fall asleep to his singing as it floated through the passageways of the opera house—he sang lullabies only because they were a soft sound, and Madame Giry told him that she appreciated being able to work later with her daughter sleeping.

She did most everything he needed a face for, so he did not mind a small favor here or there.

He did not, however, know that Meg and Christine lived together.

"Yes, you shouldn't delay," he replied, "Although I must admit, I did not know you had someone waiting at home for you every night."

"Madame Giry took me in after Pappa died," Christine said as she reached the door. "I live with her and her daughter."

"Ah, I see," he said, "In that case, I shall try not to keep you so late next time."

She glanced around the room once more. "Good night, Angel."

"Good night, my dear," he replied as she disappeared through the door.

Christine slowly closed and locked the front door of the apartment.

She slipped her boots off at the door before quietly making her way toward her room.

"Where have you been?" Meg's voice startled her as she passed the living room.

"Ah," Christine smiled at her, "I was… out."

"Until three in the morning?" Meg asked, crossing her arms. "I was about to call for a search party!"

Christine laughed as she walked over and sat down beside Meg. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time."

Meg sniffed the air then huffed, leaning against Christine's shoulder. "You don't smell like alcohol, so that's okay, I guess."

"I'm known for my benders, eh?" Christine giggled, wrapping her arm around the other girl.

"No," she replied, the word almost interrupted by a yawn. "But I do worry, y'know."

"I was at the opera house," Christine said softly, running her fingers through Meg's dark hair. "Madame Sartre was working late again."

Two separate sentences. Neither a lie.

So far Christine had managed to avoid telling Meg about her Angel, but she couldn't lie to the girl who probably meant the most to her out of every person she knew.

Meg hummed in response before yawning again.

"C'mon," Christine said, pulling the taller girl up. "Let's get to bed."

"Will you sing?" Meg asked, movements sluggish as Christine practically dragged her to the brunette's bedroom.

"Sure, Meg," she replied, helping her into bed before crawling in beside her.

Christine had her own room, of course, but spent many nights curled up beside Meg instead—a habit leftover from when Madame Giry had first taken her in and her nightmares were so horrible that she couldn't sleep alone or in complete darkness, so she had Meg and a nightlight.

Christine softly sang a short Swedish lullaby she remembered her father playing for her on his violin every night while she sang along.

Meg couldn't understand anything she said, but it was a beautiful sound nonetheless and she was out like a light barely moments later.

Christine tucked herself against Meg's side and slowly drifted off, dreaming of violins and angels and stories of beings beyond human comprehension.


End file.
